


Monday

by andchaos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Endings, Gen, Happy Ending, Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:41:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean always promised he'd have Sam home on a Monday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this post (http://dalekitsune.tumblr.com/post/84743191685) and got carried away.

It's a Monday, but in the summer it's hard to tell. The sun bakes Dean’s hands through the front windshield. The fingers are a little more cracked than they were in the beginning, a little more gnarled. They’ve seen more blood than he anticipated when he was twenty-six, already grown up in the life but ignorant to hellfire that smokes skin and ancient creatures from Purgatory and angels in trenchcoats that leave for battlefields and brothers that push you away just to drag you back into something healthier. He tightens his hands over the steering wheel and inhales, nose tilted toward the open window to capture the scents on the light breeze that filters through the car. It smells like honey and freshly mown grass and the quiet of a suburban home that he has rarely ever known.

 

He pulls up to a small, square house, painted white and all-around identical to the ones surrounding it, down to the perfectly manicured lawn and the single window set into the front wall. It looks like a box, and Dean doesn’t know if he could ever subject himself to this type of new-level torture, but he still has to drive back to finish unpacking in his new apartment in the city so he doesn’t have time to harass his brother about the same thing again. He turns the Impala into the driveway, right behind a beaten-up white truck parked next to a set of creaky wooden stairs that lead to the small, empty, paneled porch, and turns the engine off.

 

“Can you manage all the bags by yourself?” he asks, turning to the large man squeezed in the passenger seat.

 

Sam smiles down at his big brother, then closes his eyes and nods. Before he can say anything, the front door flies open, the screen door behind it already pulled back. A pretty blonde woman in a sundress bounds to the edge of the porch and leans over the railing. Her hair catches in the sun, turning it golden where it cascades over her shoulders and the rail. She waves at the two men in the car, who both wave back at her.

 

“I’ll manage,” says Sam, drawing Dean’s attention back to him. “Without all the knives and automatic weapons, my baggage is actually pretty light.”

 

Dean nods wordlessly. Neither of them moves to exit the car, however. They stare out the front windshield instead, and Dean wonders if Sam is thinking the same thing that he is; of all of the memories they made in this black classic muscle car, trashed and restored and cared for over and over, the home they never realized they had. He remembers driving it up over the grass of a cemetery, watching what he thought would be the final battle, when this car, this home, had saved them. Had saved everyone. The entire planet, down to a rusty ’67 Chevrolet.

 

Dean exhales breathily, realizing that his eyes are a little wet and hastily blinking it all back. He’ll break down later, when he’s alone. He has one last hurtle to overcome before he can allow himself that indulgence: The final goodbye.

 

Sam reaches over before he does for once, drawing him into an awkwardly-angled hug, fists curling around the fabric of his favorite leather jacket.

 

“We made it,” Sam says quietly in his ear. Even at his low volume, the awe is evident. “We got out.”

 

“Yeah, Sammy,” says Dean, embracing him back just as tightly. “Yeah, we did.”

 

They stay like that for just a touch too long before pulling away, back into their own spaces. With one final nod, Sam opens the passenger door and exits the car. The blonde woman on the porch stays there, watching them both, observing but not intruding. This is not hers to have; she’ll have a lifetime with the floppy-haired freak. This moment is theirs.

 

Sam gathers his bags from the trunk, the hidden compartment emptied and sealed with a messy mixture of caulk and duct tape, then painted over to match the fabric of the rest of the trunk. Hidden away, just like it was meant to be. He hoists the two duffles over his shoulder and closes the back, then saunters toward the stone path to the stairs. When he passes the front seat, Dean calls, “Wait!”

 

Sam turns; Dean has an arm slung across the open window, his free hand on the steering wheel. The engine is on again, and classic rock music thrums quietly in the background. Dean smiles sadly at his brother.

 

“I told you I’d get you back by Monday, bitch.”

 

Sam’s face splits into a smile, and he laughs, rich and honest. Dean blinks once, slowly, savoring the moment, trying to capture the snapshot in his head. After he’s calm, Sam opens a gigantic hand in a farewell wave.

 

“Later, jerk,” he calls.

 

Dean nods and turns back to shift into reverse, sliding smoothly out of the driveway and out into the street. He pauses after switching back to drive, foot on the brake pedal. His brother jogs up the front steps and kisses the golden-haired woman, soft but earnest.

 

“’Atta boy,” Dean says softly.

 

The late-afternoon summer sun glints off the back of the Impala as it takes off down the road, until the blare of Led Zeppelin fades and disappears.


End file.
